Page 2 of Roughing the Player
To give me time to think, I walk to the fridge, pop open a Corona, slug down a healthy gulp. “Keep talking.”
“You have one more year left in your contract. You do well in Chicago, and the sky’s the limit. You’ll be able to name your own salary. Every team in dire need of a starting quarterback will want to snap you up.”
Yeah, but in the meantime, I wouldn’t have a starting position, would I? I’d only be a temporary replacement. Once Ty Mathews heals, he’ll get his position back and I’ll be back to being number two. Seven years into my NFL career, I should be a starter, not a damn backup. “I don’t know, Marty.”
“I know how you feel. You want to be number one. Well, this is your best shot. The Chicago Outlaws is the best team in the league. Lots of eyeballs will be on you. If you do a good job, other teams will come calling, and you’ll get better endorsement deals.”
With all the success I’d had this last year, I’d hoped some companies would ask me to hawk their products. But the only thing I’d endorsed this season had been a crappy, no-name razor. I want something bigger, something that will put plenty of zeros with double digits in front of them in my checking account. I also need that number one starting spot, because the way I’m going? No way will I make the Hall of Fame. This move would not be a guarantee I’d get there, but, Marty is right, it’d be a step in the right direction. I finish the brew, crumple up the can, toss it in the recycling bin. “Okay.”
“Great.” I can almost hear his sigh of relief. No surprise. If I don’t agree to this, he doesn’t get his agent’s cut. “A word of advice, Brock. The Outlaws run a tight ship. So, you’ll need to behave.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No excessive alcohol. No groupies. No orgies.”
“Well, hell, what’s the fun of playing football if I can’t drink, screw, or party?”
“That’s what got you into trouble in Florida, remember?”
Florida. Four years ago, I’d thrown a party to celebrate the Manatees getting into the playoffs. Security had been tight. They'd searched guests for drugs. But a player had sneaked in an illicit substance, and he'd died from an overdose. Though I had nothing to do with it, I’d been crucified by the social media. When the season ended, Florida couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. They’d traded me to San Diego where I’d played backup quarterback for the last four years. Until this season, when I’d thrown more touchdowns and passing yards than the quarterback I’d replaced. And they pay me back by trading me because the new owner is a born-again Christian.
I wish I could tell them to go screw themselves. But I have no choice. It’s either Chicago or sit out the season. And that’s the kiss of death. Out of sight, out of mind in the league. No guarantee they’d even remember my name in a year’s time. And I’m not ready to hang up my cleats just yet.
“When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. I got you a ticket on the seven-thirty flight to O’Hare. I’ll email you the details.”
My pit bull nudges his big head against my knee, as if he’s sensed my distress. I scratch his head. No idea if I’m trying to comfort him or me. “I can’t fly out tomorrow. Butch hates flying, and I’m not going without him.”
“We’ve made arrangements for your dog. Someone will come by later today to pick him up. They’ll drive him cross-country to one of the best dog places in Chicago. Once you’re ready for him, you can fetch him. Expect to get a call in an hour or so to arrange for his pick up.”
A dog kennel. Butch won’t like that. He hates to be penned up. I’ll need to get him out of there as soon as I can. “What about my furniture, my things?” My memories.
“They’ll be taken care of. We’ve arranged for movers to pack your belongings and ship them to Chicago.”
“Where? I don’t exactly have a place there.”
“We’ve leased a two-bedroom condo for you.”
He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he? But that’s not going to work. At least not long term. “I have a four-bedroom house. Where am I supposed to put all my stuff?”
“The movers will handle it, Brock. Any extra furniture will be put in storage. It’s only a short term-rental, so if you don’t like it, we’ll help you find another place. But you won’t be there at first. You’re reporting right to training camp.”
I’ll be staying in a condo, instead of a house. Butch will be penned up in a dog kennel, instead of running free. My stuff will be delivered and any extras will be put in storage. He makes it sound like everything will be peachy keen. Like hell, it will.
“I’m sending someone to meet you at the airport, one of our newer agents. She’ll be waiting in the luggage claim area. Her name is Eleanor Adams.”
Eleanor Adams? In an instant, the years roll back to the Eleanor Adams I once knew. The girl I never forgot. The one who got away. I rub the spot above my chest that always aches when I think of her. But Marty’s junior agent can’t be her. My Eleanor was headed for medical school someday.
“We don’t want the public to know about your arrival, so she won’t be holding a sign with your name.”
“How will I know her?”
“Don’t worry. She’ll know you.”
Makes sense. I’m pretty well known. But I’ve never heard of a chick sports agent, at least any that represent football players. A wild notion pops into my head. What if Marty’s trying to get rid of me? “You’re not pawning me off on her, are you, Marty?”
He barks out a laugh. “You’d be lucky to get her. She’s hardworking, dedicated. A stellar junior agent. But no, I’ll continue to represent you. You’re my cross to bear.”
